


Déjà Vu

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, Lost - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Spirit AU, VictUuri, Victory, Victuri, Why are there so many names for this ship, adoration, burn - Freeform, depends on what mood i'm in, envy - Freeform, not kinky, probably angst, seriously, y'all really love to see them fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9060646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: dé·jà vu/ˌdāZHä ˈvo͞o/nounA feeling of having already experienced the present situation. "You're not schizophrenic," Victor says with wide eyes as if he didn't believe a word I say. He seems to be biting back laughter as he speaks. "Not in the slightest.""And why is that?" I ask, curious to know if he will give me some preposterous response."Because . . ." He pauses, giving me that flash of a smile that makes me weak. I wonder if he knows what it does to me?"I can see them too."





	1. “If you say the words, I'll go to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> It was snowing. Even in my dreams, the snow fell at the same calm speed. There were two footprints in the snow, destined to be washed away in the storm.
> 
> And yet, I was lost in his gaze. The way his eyes remained forever locked with mine as if I were a hypnotist and he a volunteer. God, his eyes . . . They were the kind of blue I always got lost in, even though it was always from the other side of a television screen. Not the kind of the ocean, but of a glacier. 
> 
> In my dream, he wore a traditional Russian coat that made him a vibrant red, three broad metallic clasps across his chest and waist. A silver laurel was on his head as if he were crowned a winner of some sort of competition. But a part of me seemed to believe it to be golden. To match him on some level, I was wearing a traditional kimono, silver fan folded in my left hand. My dreams almost always had us in these outfits. There was seldom a night where they were absent, especially the golden laurel and silver fan.
> 
> “You should really borrow my cloak, if you won’t take my jacket,” He was saying with a smile. I felt myself shaking my head and my lips moving, but heard not my response. “Don’t come crying to me when you get cold, then,” He murmured, eyes betraying his words. I spoke a response that made him laugh, a sound that made my chest go aflutter. The snow that previously landed on our head and shoulders was soon absent, our bodies beneath a building’s awning.
> 
> “That’s right. We don’t have much time left, huh?” He seemed to muse. Our footsteps slowed in time with mine until we were stopped in front of a building my dream did not complete. I felt his hand land on my cheek, warm compared to how ghastly cold I was. “Time always goes by so fast, don’t you think?”
> 
> He paused for my response that I spoke, though never heard.
> 
> “I know. Me too,” he said face inches from mine as his blue eyes bore into mine with a gentle kindness. 
> 
>  
> 
> “There is always tomorrow.”

I always wake from those dreams.

No matter how much I want to stay, to relish in the world where I knew my idol, reality rushes to me like a rapid wave.

The December snow was still falling outside my window, the chill I awoke with confusing me back into the real world. Grey light covers most of my room, nothing like the colorful night my mind created only moments ago. My eyes, heavy with fatigue, land on the orange bottle that had toppled over. The pills within were scattered across my nightstand, my glasses resting upon a selective few of them.

I yawn, legs swinging over the edge of my bed, sheets shifting ever so slightly to accompany my new position. A blind hand grabs and (rather sloppily) places my glasses on the bridge of my nose. Two pills are taken with the help of a glass of water, sadly warm from the heater in my room.

My family tells me that they help with what I see.

That they would rid the spirits from my field of vision.

It does not.

So, I humor my mother and father, so fretful that there was something wrong with my mind.

And pretend that I am normal.

  
“Yuri, did you sleep well?” Mom asks in her usual kind voice, as I quite obviously fall asleep over my breakfast.

“Like a baby,” I respond with an entirely fake yet broad smile. A reassurance that was there every morning. Mari, unsurprisingly, was not fooled by my lie. She hit me roughly on the back with a loud yawn.

“I’m going to make some coffee. Want some, little brother?” she asks with a knowing look in her eyes.

“Please,” I say, grateful that she understood my fatigue more than others. Mari never quite questioned it but knows that it is never from practice.

  
The first spirit appears on my morning run to the ice skating rink.

There is no sign of his arrival, merely the shift in the atmosphere as he enters. I see a tail flick over my shoulder- the shape was a lion’s, yet the pattern was a tiger and leopard. His face appears on my right, obviously unamused. His blond bangs were tied back with braids, blue-green eyes sharp.

“You overslept,” He says coldly. “And I thought that, _maybe_ , I wouldn't have to be around you today.”

“I’m sorry,” I sigh.

A spirit of envy.

That’s what he told me he was, at least.

Never gave a proper name, even though I constantly ask.

“Hello, Yuko,” I call out as I open the door, pausing for the spirit of envy. His lip twitches in annoyance, sauntering through nevertheless. She looks at me strangely, undoubtedly noticing how I make room for envy.

“Hi!” She chirps with the same unwavering enthusiasm, climbing over the counter instead of walking around. “You’re here early!”

“I am?” I ask, blinking in confusion. Envy reminded me on my run that I had slept in, the cause of my confusion.

“Yeah,” she begins, leading me down the hall. “Your runs usually take longer. Something on your mind?”

“I would love to hear the answer to that. What’s on your mind, pig?” Envy purrs, rummaging through an open locker. Most people would notice and scream. But Yuko was too worried to stray away from my gaze.

“No,” I say, a lie straight to my childhood friend. My mind, still struggling to grip reality, is once more straying to the Victor from my dreams. “There’s nothing on my mind.”

The one that doesn't exist.

And yet, I always catch myself relishing within the lie my mind creates. Where he knows me.

It was like a child with magic.

Even if the world tells us that it is not real, we believe.

  
And have hope.

  
“You lied.”

  
“I did.”

  
“That's stupid of you. She would have understood,” Envy grumbles, watching me lace up my skates with a close eye. I caught his muttered 'pig' after his words but chose to keep quiet of it.

“I know that. I was hiding it from you,” I respond quickly, standing from the bench.

“Who are you talking to?” Takeshi says, scaring me half to death. His words are slow as if speaking to someone mental. I realize that that is exactly what it must look like to someone who can't see what I do.

“Myself,” I say quickly, trying to ignore the cold sweat running down my neck and the smug chuckle from the cat spirit. “J-Just myself. Pep talk.”

“Hmm…” he is unconvinced. But, like the other times he catches me speaking to those that appear to me, is quick to shake it off. “Okay. Don't spend too much time in the rink today, alright?”

“I won't,” I laugh, watching Envy lift a picture from the locker. “I’ll make sure to stop before it gets too late.” The cat-like irises of the spirit look at me, a brow cocked as he gathers my message. He sticks out his tongue as a response.

“It's not like he’ll notice me,” the spirit says smugly. “You’re the only one who has to worry about physical matters such as that.”

Once more, the unnamed Spirit of Envy is correct.

So I take it upon myself to ignore him from that point on, entering the ice.

He shouts at me to answer a question I didn't hear. So I pull open a live interview on my phone, earbuds silencing his shouts.

  
“So, Victor, have you found anyone that you’re interested in?” The interviewer asks. I hear his laugh, fluttering but tense in some way.

“These questions already? Hmm…” I can hear him ponder upon it for a long while, humming quietly. “There’s someone. Can't tell you who, though. They probably don't even know themselves,” he laughs. A feeling pulses within me, familiar in every aspect. An ear bud is taken from my ear although my now anxious skating does not stop. I see the blond hair and malicious fanged smirk.

“But you’re Victor Nikiforov. Of course they would know,” I hear the reporter say.

“You’re jealous,” Envy whispers, the ears with matching pattern to his tail twitching. “And I think I know why.”

“I’m not going to listen,” I say, pushing myself away from the spirit. “Even though you can detect and become stronger from jealousy, I still refuse to let you say what I already know.”

“But do you truly know? Or are you just saying that to get me to lay off?” He proposes this theory as I turn my back to him, digging my skates into the ice. Envy stands on the ice, his leather boots only visible for a second. The brown kimono covers it shortly after.

I didn't answer.

  
_“What can you tell us about this person?”_

_“Well… they’re someone amazing. Even if they don't realize it. They’re someone that I would even give up my laurel of victory for.”_

_“Do they have the same love for skating?”_

_“Oh, of course,” he laughs. A soft sort of sound that makes my heart skip a beat. “They’re just as passionate, even though our reasons may be different. But they’re a lost soul. So fragile.”_

_“Let's assume this person is a male. Would you allow him to take gold from you?”_

_“Hah! No, I would never do that. If he would want to take it from me, he has to earn it. Through the same sweat, tears, and passion all winners have.” Unspoken words are behind what he says._

_“But when I do retire, I hope he takes my place as champion."_

_No, those aren't it._

_Victor, what do you yearn to say?_

_Why do you choose not to?_


	2. "He's shed enough tears to have won."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You can't be serious. Never?” Victor asked. I respond with a laugh, undoubtedly at his disbelief. The laurel on his head shone in the moonlight as we ran, side by side. Our feet sail over a ledge, both of our hands reaching out and grabbing a tree branch. The fan in my hand opens as our feet touch the floor. “That's unfortunate. You’d really like chicken kiev. On your right, Yuri.”
> 
>  
> 
> I didn't know what he meant when he gave the directions, but my dream self did. My head snapped sharply to see a shimmering figure, a small flame beside her head. A child with a shrunken frame, shaking to the cold air. Her wide eyes stare at me. My fan snaps closed in my hand, the other resting on her shoulder as I kneel down. The dream version of myself smiled, and gave reassuring words.
> 
>  
> 
> “I want one more meal,” the girl croaked. I felt myself sigh, and then laugh. A feeling in my chest told me that my dream self had prepared beforehand. The part of me that is tied to reality caught his breath as I pulled out a bento box. The girl’s face brightened, thin hands held outwards for the food. She eats a pork cutlet bowl I recognized as the one my family made. 
> 
>  
> 
> She eats hungrily. As if that was the first time she had eaten in years. From the way I could see her clothing stick to her frame, I knew that must be true. When she finished devouring every bit of what I assumed to be leftovers from dinner, the girl in my dream grinned. There was a piece of rice stuck on her cheek. The girl nodded at me, a name forming in my head. Sasha Peters, a girl from Germany. She was abandoned at six, died at nine years old, she told me as she ate. My fan flicks open, shimmering a gold despite it being silver in color. I moved it across her figure, which dissolved into nothing. She gave me a simple parting phrase as the fan completely blocked her from view, snow landing and melting on my hands.
> 
>  
> 
> “Thank you.”
> 
>  
> 
> And just like that, she was gone.
> 
>  
> 
> “One spirit down,” Victor chirped behind me, my head turned to him in an instant. He was smiling in a comforting sort of way. I gave a response in a low voice. He held out a hand to me, the brown leather gloves he wore cold to the touch. I took his hand, my body pulled against his. “And you did perfectly,” he murmurs. A part of me recognized that we were in Nagasaki. The other was too busy relishing in Victor’s embrace, arms far too eager to return it. 
> 
>  
> 
> And for once, I heard what my own voice responded with.
> 
>  
> 
> “Enough for you to give me your laurel?” I muttered against his neck, grinning to my ears.

My name is Yuri Katsuki. I'm a skater that isn't valuable in the slightest, even if people say I'm the best in Japan. I have everyone convinced that I “see” things that aren't there.

And last year- I lost the Grand Prix Final. Horribly.

I was so sure that I would retire from the shame that was implemented upon me and my name.

But for some reason- I find myself once again on the ice. Once again fiercely fighting through the ranks with a passion that has no known origin.

My entirety knows that there is something motivating me.

 

My mind refuses to tell me what it is.

 

“Yuri!” A voice chirps. I feel the pressure upon my bed, the springs straining ever so slightly. “Today’s the day! Rise and shine!”

 

Phichit Chulanont is the owner of the voice. We decided to share a room in the hotel, purely so we could amuse one another to lower our anxieties should they occur. Of course, that is inevitable for me. He, on the other hand . . .

 

“It’s six in the morning,” I deadpan, taking a glance at my phone. The brightness had been turned down from the previous night of anxiously scrolling through social media platforms. I silently thank my past self for making such a decision. “Unless living skating legend Victor Nikiforov is at our door to wish us luck today, I refuse to move even an inch from this bed.

 

“Rude,” Phichit laughs, his warm eyes crinkling down at me. He holds a makeup bag in his lap, undoubtedly for his Short Program. “And here I was hoping to tell you about the spirit of infatuation again . . .” he trailed off, flouncing from my bed to the opened door of the bathroom. “But no worries!”

 

“You saw her again?” I ask, stumbling to grab my glasses. My friend gives me a smug sort of grin from the doorframe, light bursting to life behind him.

 

The world may be convinced that I’m schizophrenic, even if I know I am not. Phichit is a different case. He was smart enough to keep quiet about the things he saw, albeit extremely difficult for such a social person. So the only way to get him to tell me that he saw the spirits as well (and that I was not entirely mad)-

 

Was to get caught talking to one. It was an old woman who followed me around in my time training with Celestino when we were younger- eighteen, I believe. She told me that she was a spirit of infatuation, her husband a Russian soldier who was a spirit of honor. But she kept silent at all times of why the two were not together at the time. Only spoke of how great he was and of her family. Rather, her son.

 

“You can see them too,” Phichit had said when he overheard me speaking to the old woman about a soup she used to make for her family. It was an awestruck sort of expression that he had, eyes wide. In a hushed whisper that kept the conversation away from the others around us, he told me about the old woman’s son. A spirit of nothing who he had spoken to daily. Until I began training with him. Then the son vanished.

 

The old woman had smiled. She told us not of why he disappeared, just that it was a good thing.

 

She, too, had left us. But I know it was not in the same way. She had merely gone away to be with her husband again.

 

“Mhm~” Phichit hummed, vanishing within the depths of the shared bathroom. “She ran into me after you finished going over your short program. Told me her name, that she was proud of how far we’ve come, and that she and her husband will be silently cheering us on. Isn’t that sweet?”

 

“Phichit,” I say, coughing in dismay. “She told you her name?”

 

“Of course,” He responds, blinking at me from the mirror. “Why is that strange?”

 

“I knew her for six years. She never told me her name. Hell, she kept quiet about her husband’s name! And we all know how long she could go on about him,” I almost cry. He gives me an amused or confused look, a brow cocked.

 

“Well,” He begins, huffing out a deep breath as he continues applying his eyeliner. “It’s Poppy.”

“Unfortunate name. But fitting,” I muse, sorting through my clothes that were shoved into a suitcase at the foot of my bed. “I’m going to go scout out some food.”

“While avoiding every skater?” Phichit asks.

“Of course. What else do you expect from me?”  
“I don’t know,” He sighs, voice fading as I already begin to leave the room, anxious for some sort of fresh air. “Possibly for you to be a social butterfly for once? And get me something!” The last part is sudden and, for the most part, heart-attack inducing. It made me accidentally slam the door shut behind me. I hear two people in separate rooms mumble and groan, one throwing what I assume to be a shoe at their door.

 

So I bolt.

 

 

The skaters currently awake in the lobby are all conversing, None turning to me as I run by. A part of me curses myself for not being more discreet, the other too focused on eating the stress away. I spy a couple that are familiar- Victor absent. How amusing if he were the shoe throwing menace on my floor.

Yeah . . . amusing . . .

  
I found the hotel’s food after five minutes of frantically running about the lobby, undoubtedly convincing most of the other residents that I’m more mad than hallucinogenic. I return to the room to give Phichit his requested food, of course. It would be plain cruel to leave him hanging. He tells me to get ready as I’m about to go back to sleep.

“I’m going to fail, anyways.”

“No, you’re not. If you stay determined, we’ll both qualify!” He says cheerily, although a look on his face told me that a large part of him wants to slap sense into me.

“Can I sleep, then?” I say, collapsing upon my mess of a twin bed. Phichit glares at me from the bathroom, in a perfect position to throw his blush brush at my face. “I want to dream.”

“You don’t see those scenes when you sleep in the day. Well, most of the time,” He sighs, jumping to my bedside. “Remember? You tried last month.”

And nothing happened. I dreamed of nothing. No Victor smiling and laughing in the winter snow. But it was better than worrying. About the inevitable fact that I’m the last person to be able to qualify compared to the everloving monsters around me.

“C’mon, I want to see everybody’s reaction when I come strolling in,” Phichit begs, tugging on my arm. I give in reluctantly but refuse to move until I’m reminded a second time.

 

 

My mind is a mess.

  
I process what is occurring at the moment. I’m being interviewed. All of my responses are nervous. Because I know not of why I chose the theme I did. Love.

I don’t know if I’m going to win gold. So long as Victor is here, I doubt it. But I can try.

Just as long as I can even step foot on the same ice as him-

That’s enough for me.

Time passes by before my eyes, forming together like snowflakes piling upon the floor. Thoughts a cluster, I found myself going over my program in my mind. I remind myself of my weak points. If I mess them up I would be beyond a failure to Victor if he would even take the time to notice me.

So, let’s see . . .

There’s a camel spin in it, if I'm not mistaken. The axels and quads are obviously going to be the most important components.

Ah, Extension, too-

Someone walks into me, our shoulders colliding harshly. I fall to the floor while he remains standing, kneeling to grab whatever fell out. I hear my heart pound in my ears, watching in a shocked silence as he brushes silver hair from his face. His blue eyes stare down at the floor for a long moment as if contemplative.

I grab my bag in a panic, hugging it to my chest fiercely as I stand in time with him. He blinks at me, expression somewhat surprised.

“You dropped this,” He says in a casual tone, holding a rectangular object for me to take. The processing of what it actually is takes a moment.

A silver fan.

The one from my dreams.

A mere coincidence, I knew entirely. And yet I found myself staring into those blue eyes as I knew I did in my dreams. As if it were the same.

  
“Thank you,” I manage to say without sounding like a complete mess once I notice that I’m staring at him a little too long.

“You’re welcome,” He laughs. I’m not sure whether it’s at or with. I watch Victor stand, puzzled over the stupid question. Someone calls his name, stealing both of our attention. Another Russian skater, I could tell.

Our gazes met just as I thought of how the voice reminded me of someone with the same bossy sort of tone. His eyes are a blue green that are too unique to not miss. Even if they aren’t in cat-like slits.

“And why are you talking to that pig?” The man that resembles the spirit of envy spits.

“Don’t be rude, Yuri,” Victor chirps almost scoldingly. Yuri stares at me until I begin to feel uncomfortable, his eyes narrowing beneath a blond curtain of hair. He turns to leave with the smaller Russian that I know for a fact is the spirit of envy.

“Wait!” I call, acting against my own will that screams to run away. Victor stops in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder to me. My mind turns to static, ordering me to say the first thing that came to mind. “I- uh . . . I look forward to seeing you skate, Victor.”

I expect him to react in a way similar to the other Yuri beside him. Instead, he gives me a ghost of a smile that makes my heart falter. But nothing else responds to it, as if I were acquainted with the smile already. His smile reaches his eyes, I notice in some part of my mind.

 

“And I look forward to yours, Yuri.

  
“Good luck.”


	4. “Forget-me-nots aren't very appropriate in this case, are they?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re in Russia again. I’m seated on a rooftop with Victor, our hands intertwined. His laurel glimmered as if greeting me. The crimson coat clashed against him but suited everything in his being, and the fur lining his sleeves tickled my hand. I felt that I was in love with Victor’s entirety, deep within myself. The conscious part of me felt empty at that realization. Falling in love with your idol from behind a television screen was not the plan for me at the start. It just . . . Seemed to happen. And it hurt me in so many ways beyond words alone. Destroyed me, even. But I was happy in this dream. Just like every other night, the world that was far from reality was the one where I was entirely happy.
> 
> “I want to beat you,” I said with a grin. “How shocked do you think the judges would be if you got silver? Especially since I’m only in third?”
> 
> “They would be horrified, Yuri. Not shocked. ‘Look at this beautiful, amazing monster as he takes gold,’” Victor dramatically announced in a rather horrible impression of the English-speaking announcers. He was gesturing extravagantly, as well. “‘Who knew that such a glorious person existed?’”
> 
> “They wouldn't say that,” I laughed, my fan held loosely in my lap. I was wearing a fur hat and gloves, my mind processed. That must be why I seldom felt the cold air blustering about. A Ushanka, it provided with the strange fact my normal self shouldn't know. It also noted how unbelievably smitten I was. A fact already known to myself.
> 
> “Yes they would and you know it,” He stubbornly snapped, although no harsh intentions were behind it. Snow landed on his hair and lap, making everything seem all the more unbelievable than it already was- his beauty and all occurring. Before most competitions, I always dreamt of Victor talking to me about them, but never until now did I know that I was the one initiating such conversation.
> 
> “They really wouldn't. Less . . . Amorous words,” I plainly described what I was attempting to say at the time, hand flicking my fan. My eyes caught on the silver clasps that were more like blinding stripes if you looked at them at a certain angle, now shimmering a gold. My stomach told me who had caused it. A reaction I had now seen twice in my dreams- the silver of our items turning gold for a mere second.
> 
> “Who's jealous today?” Victor asked absently, staring at the stars. A disgruntled blond with very recognizable ears slumped to the edge next to him directly after.
> 
> “Do you want to know?” Envy asked. Even though I now knew he was Yuri Plisetsky. He seemed to want to spit on the poor man beside him, but something caused him to relent and give in to the begging gaze. Envy’s shoulders slumped, his tolstovka now prominent. It was rare to see him in such ensemble- the shirt too large and held in place by a rope around his waist- the brown pants he forced into boots. It was so . . . Plain compared to Victor. “It's the usual. Everyone who saw your performance. One person said they’d actually kill for your costume. And,” he began in a rather irritated tone. As if the subject alone made him want to vomit. He lifted a hand to point a finger at me, his strange wildcat ears flicked back, tail irritably thumping on the roof. “So is he.”
> 
> _______

I had practiced in my head a number of times of what it would be like to meet Victor Nikiforov, to the point where I lost count. First I was a child, innocent and in awe by his breathtaking performances. He would have smiled at me. Possibly spared a few pitiful, kind words. Then I was a failure. He would have scoffed at me, lip twitching in agitation to see such a mistake before him.

But he didn't. That was an extraordinary sort of thing to me. Even a few days passed where I am now anxiously awaiting our final skate in Russia- still seeming to be miles off of being over the encounter. It was like my dreams, I realize as I vaguely see myself being dragged to the edge of the rink by my wrist. Phichit must want a picture. Then he turns to me with a grin and I find myself following his pointed hand to the man on the ice.

I find myself falling deeper into everything Victor does. He moves to the music with the fluidity of silk upon the ice, a blissful smile occasionally blossoming across his lips. Almost as if he heard a joke. His performance is perfect down to the very fiber of his clothing, a crimson and gold coat ensemble that seems vaguely familiar to me although I can not recall from which it pertains from. It is made from a velour fabric that was buttoned high on his neck, gold velvet lining the sleeves. The way it glimmered in the light was almost familiar. His pants are black as night and form fitting, to better suit the costume. And on the part of his head where his hair is constantly pushed behind his ear, rests an array of intricate golden cedar leaves curling around the right of his forehead like a crown. Some suspect that there are golden bay leaves beneath as a symbolism for his many victories from before and those to come.

I, on the other hand, don’t know what to suspect in the case of that rumor. For Victor indiscreetly surprises me in everything he does, whether he notices or not, are unknown to me. All I know is his choreography. A free skate worth repeating over and over in my head as well as on the television. Phichit once unplugged the TV in order to get me to stop. He would always clasp his hands to his heart as if a silent message so stubbornly hidden from us. And every time he would pull a flower away from it and present it to the sky, abandoning it upon the ice to be swept away.

But that was not what he did this time. He produced the flower and locked his gaze with mine. A faint glimmer of amusement in those beautiful eyes of his. Yet, of all things, he winks at me. My conscience couldn't take it. It renders me in shock although I cannot look away from this hypnotizing man. Victor lifts it to his face and kisses the flower, some curious emotion in his blue eyes. Blue Salvia, my thoughts offered. How or when I learned this I cannot say. A part of me believes a night of watching the performance on repeat and waiting for that flower was not enough. I must have wanted to know what it was. From behind the television screen, I could never identify the flower left to the ice, now amorously against his lips.

“Yuri, you’re crying,” a kind voice says from my side. Another spirit unseen to those around me, I recall. I know not of when he appeared beside me, only that he is now present and awaiting my free skate. I could have sworn Victor glances briefly to him and takes a double take, though.

This spirit, unlike Envy (now known to be Yuri Plisetsky- something perplexing to me), has told me his name. Minami Kenjiro. His brown eyes were always wide with joy, no matter my mood.

And he insists that he is bound happily to me (and his family, it seems), as a spirit of adoration. That he would have joined me this year in the competition. But that was not to be for him. He was content, he insists. Nothing beats being able to watch every single one of my performances, he says.

I don't believe a word he says.

“Am I?” I murmur, feeling the tears land on the hands I now notice gripping the edge of the rink tightly. Despite this, I am smiling. All three are involuntary reactions I try so desperately to shove down.

“I knew his performances moved you, but isn't this a little too much?” Phichit asks me the question lightly, his grin just barely within my field of vision. A part of me notices the box of tissues he waves just under my nose as one would food to a dog. Before I realize it I'm taking wads of the tissue and blowing quite audibly.

“Phichit . . . I don't know why I'm reacting like this. It's so ridiculous, huh,” I murmur against the tissue. The score of Victor’s free skate is announced all the while- a high score expected of him. I try to ignore the fear rising with a cold sweat rolling down my back, soaking the mesh on my lower back.

“You,” a familiar voice filled with aggression says from far beyond me.Is listening in on conversations bad? Possibly. Did it stop me? Of course not. “Are the stupidest person I have ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

“That may be, Yurio,” a voice I knew as well as my own response. A pain stabs at my forehead as I struggle to recall the meaning of that nickname. Minami and Phichit cry out in worry, both lunging to comfort me as I hunch over the rink’s edge. “But do you think he liked it?”

“If he has any sense in him, no. If he’s anything like you-”

“The answer is yes, then?”

“ . . . Your mind is one tracked, Victor.”

I hear not of the response given as their voices fade, Yurio preparing for his time on the ice. His costume is extravagant although paling in comparison to his senior skater. A red and pink pattern adorns black cloth, a high collar much resembling feathers to match.

He skates to the center after what seemed like ages, those sharp eyes meeting mine. They harden for a split second before the music takes his attention away from me.

“Does he hate you?” Minami asks with a pout on his lips. He locks eyes with Yurio- a connection unmistakable even to Phichit. But both of them shake it off quickly as if it never happened, though we both know otherwise. The blond that makes the ice bow to him furrowing his brows in what seems to be frustration once the contact breaks. Minami, on the other hand, holds the amusement of a child at the occurrence.

I don't have an answer for his curious inquiry, unfortunately.

“Don't think so,” Phichit answers for me, eyes shimmering as he watches the fluid movements of the young skater. “He’s that bitter to everyone. I tried asking him for a photo yesterday and he threatened to beat me to a pulp.”

“Not the friendliest of guys?” Minami suggests. An understatement, I correct. “Ah, no, I meant something different,” he continues nervously. “He avoids befriending all of you.”

The feelings that no one should know that Yurio has buried deep beneath him. Not even Minami should know such a thing-

Unless Yurio possesses adoration towards one of the many skaters competing. Then his instinct as a spirit representing the emotion would kick in and feed him information. At least, that's what he tells me.

It must be Victor. Who wouldn't look up to him just as much if not more than I do? Of course, I'm just one of many fans, so my love for him is not to compare to those above me.

As those thoughts cross my mind, a burning feeling pierces my leg where my bag touches. I become acutely aware of the mysterious fan that had made itself known a few days prior. The one from my dreams that never shines gold, consistently a dull silver.

Yurio performs a flawless triple salchow, sending the audience into violent cheers. But the trio including myself notices an insignificant detail occurring halfway through the execution. His expression turns from the ferocity I knew from our first human encounter to a blank slate. His lips settle and eyes dull to the point where one might think him to be a walking corpse.

“He's doing it again,” the audience whispers. Phichit puffs out his cheeks in concentration to catch their conversation. I, on the other hand, have a churning feeling in my stomach that someone will knock Minami to the floor. So I calmly ask him to step a foot to the left. Just as a precaution, I reassure him. In case my assumption was correct.

It was.

He appears in a sudden burst of energy that made Phichit shudder, tail painted with the fur pattern of every wildcat known to man the last to appear. His first action as a spirit once again, however, is to scream in frustration. Minami jumps a good five feet in the air through his terror of the shout. A small flame pops into existence beside my head, dancing around me teasingly.

“ _Why_ ,” he exasperatedly growls, meeting my confused gaze. The anger in his face is unfiltered, lip twitching in what I assumed to be disgust. He did not complete his inquiry, assuming I know.

“What?”

“Why did you summon me?”

“I . . . I didn't,” I say with the doubt of myself I know is there but unable to be wiped. Considering recent events, such is understandable even to me.

“Oh. Right,” he dismisses it as easily as one would a civil conversation with those words, lips pursing as he views himself skating upon the ice. “I look like a zombie.”

“So you are Yuri Plisetsky.”

“Of course not. I'm the fucking queen of England.”

“You never did tell him your name. Could have been an identical twin,” Phichit cheerily suggests. Minami still frantically looks back and forth between the spirit of Envy and his human counterpart currently going through his program with perfection.

“You’re going to beat my score,” I mope, preparing to wallow in self- pity. Then the two spirits on my left hit me roughly up the head. I cry out in pain, hands slamming against the rink.

“I'm competing before you, dumbass,” Yurio points out with agitation. He still seems unreasonably angry with me for reasons I neither understand nor comprehend. Minami gives no explanation to why he hit me, but I connect the dots and realize he must despise me speaking lowly of myself if he wishes to hide beneath the facade that he adored my skating.

Yurio gets a score my mind ceases to comprehend. Only that the number is high enough to put him in silver. Despite this, he does not return to his body. He remains stuck as the bitter spirit I have come to accept in my daily life.

I get bronze. Not satisfactory enough to me or the expectations shrouding me. Phichit gets fourth.

Minami congratulates me when all is said and done, a grin plastered on his forever youthful face. Yurio tries to punch his physical form that is idly standing by his coach, Yakov, and Victor, who glances in my direction. Our eyes meet for a brief second.

And yet, something in that glance withers away my emotions. The one I never knew was present nor of what it pertains, merely that it is there. An empty feeling in my stomach, and then my heart.

Disappointment, I had realized that same night over dinner. Phichit stubbornly insists that he treats both Celestino and me.

“I think Yuri had an epiphany,” My friend quietly whispers when it hits me. My eyes are wide, I know by the air lashing at my eyes to the point where they watered.

“Definitely,” Minami agrees from his side, legs crossed as if he were sitting on the floor despite being suspended three feet off the ground. Celestino asks me if I'm going to eat my food or keep it on my fork a second later, shaking me back to my senses. I eat in silence from then on out, responding to the occasional quips from the three around me. Minami’s responses are as quiet and discreet as humanly possible, of course.

“You can go ahead,” I later say to them as we exit the building. “I’ll catch up later.”

“Okay!” Phichit and Minami chirp in unison, continuing their ghostly silent conversation as if nothing happened.

“Remember, we have to leave tomorrow. So don't have too much fun,” Celestino adds with a wink over his shoulder, rushing to catch up with the two- or one, for him.

“I would like to return to my actual body,” Yurio says from behind me. The first he spoke for the entire night beyond his Free Skate.

“Oh- I-”

“You can't help me. I know. But if you can wallow in your own pathetic thoughts I can complain as much as I please of a situation I have no control of.”

“That's alright, I guess. You do seem to be stuck wherever I am,” I glumly respond. “No matter the circumstances.” An occurrence neither of us seems to know the cause of. Yurio would often appear to me and be unable to leave my side until later in the day, either after I shower or eat dinner. And yet he still remains tethered to my existence so late into the night. How the spirit who became a spirit of adoration because of me could leave my side whereas Yurio can't, I don't know. Just that one is content. The other . . . Well, he’s a spirit of envy that hates all that I stand for.

We walk in silence, his grumbling shockingly absent from the atmosphere. As much as I would do without it before, I now wish that he would complain just to distract me from myself and all the thoughts that arrive with it.

I worry that I wasn't perfect enough to be worthy of seeing Victor once more. That the grave I dug last year was only made worse by my failure. That, god, I may only see him in my dreams. The worse inevitability is of all the people who watch me fail over and over yet still pretend that they love and support me. If they could only tell me the truth-

A slender hand seizes my left arm, pulling sharply. I almost cry out in pain before I meet the eyes of the man and decide to bite my lower lip. His features are held in the dark by the cover of the two buildings on either side of us, but no one can mistake the beautiful features only he holds.

Victor leans out to peer at the passing crowd for a split second before turning back to me, our forms pressed together with barely enough room to breathe. “I think we lost him,” he whispers more to himself than me, meeting my gaze with a warm grin. That is when I realize he is speaking to me entirely. Not himself. “Your free skate was amazing, by the way,” he quickly adds

“Lost who?” I ask, acutely aware of the passing crowds and of how tightly our bodies are crammed together, warm breath mingling with one another. I pretend that I don't hear the last comment, though the heat rising to my cheeks definitely state otherwise. He cocks his head at my response in an inquisitive manner, beautifully shimmering eyes blinking as the gears in his mind turn.

“Yurio, of course,” he says it as if oblivious to his own words. “He managed to wander off without you. Something impossible in theory but I'll be damned if I haven't managed it before-”

“You talk as if you’re well acquainted with me. I-if you mind me asking, why? And please give me room, it's very uncomfortable with you pressed so close.”

The dawn of realization comes, but he neither responds nor moves. Merely cocks his head to the side once more with a surprised look. “We have met before, though. It shouldn't be all that strange,” he murmurs in a voice that sends shivers down my spine.

“Then . . . How did you know Yurio was with me?” I propose a simple question as if I’m treading on thin ice, doomed to shatter beneath me. First, he gives me the notification that I had said his nickname once. To which I respond, "Then why would you take the word of the infamous Schizophrenic skater?"

"You're not schizophrenic," Victor says with wide eyes as if he didn't believe a word I say. He seems to be biting back laughter as he speaks. Like he knows something about me I myself seem to be unaware of. "Not in the slightest."

"And why is that?" I ask, curious to know if he will give me some preposterous response similar to all the others offered.

"Because . . ." He pauses for a long moment. His innocent expression turns to a satisfied smirk one would give prey, an index finger pressing to his lips. The way a child would after murmuring a secret. Victor shouldn't have been able to see the spirit of Envy beside me, or the one of adoration that followed me like a puppy. He should be one of the many people convinced they are a figment of my imagination. Unless-

  
“I can see them too.”   



End file.
